


Drug-Seeking Behavior

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Body Modification, Consensual Somnophilia, Consensual Underage Sex, Dean Has Breasts, Drug Use, Filthy, Gender Dysphoria, Genderbending, Intersex, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Medication, Nipple Licking, Pregnant Dean, Pregnant Sex, Somnophilia, Trans, Triggers, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wrong, kinda girl!Dean, mpreg kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: For an SPN kink-meme fill involving a drug that enables sexual transformation.  Here's part of the prompt:Science has developed pills that can cause instant gender transformation in people. There are fast acting temporary pills, permanent pills, pills that cause only your top to change or only your genitals, pills that turn you intersex, etc. Most people mess around with them in their twenties but eventually settle down into a gender, usually but not always the one they were born. These pills are strictly forbidden to minors without psychiatric prescription as they aren't considered to have the maturity to pick their own gender (but being available by prescription can help those with serious gender dysphoria).Dean (14ish) has problems with his body. He doesn't know what it should be, exactly, but not what he's got. There's no money for stuff like psychiatric care, so he decides he's going to steal some. He gets caught by pharmacist Castiel... [full prompt here: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/122065.html?thread=43517137#t43517137].PLEASE read the full PROMPT, NOTES, and TAGS.  Non-con warning is due to the young age of participants, rather than explicit non-consensual behavior





	1. go ask Alice

**Author's Note:**

> Gender dysphoria is a real thing, and potentially triggering, so please read all tags, notes, and summaries. The condition Dean has in this story is NOT gender dysphoria and is not meant to reflect anyone's true feelings or experiences: it's a plot-device to get us to the porn, as requested by the prompter.

Castiel only notices the two boys because it’s getting so late.  Rural Road #4 is the last stop on the school bus route; the only other businesses nearby are a dingy trailer park and a bar called The Roadhouse, whose proprietor is surprisingly scrupulous about refusing entry to minors.  So Cas is not surprised when a few kids straggle in to avoid the biting mid-western wind.  But when two of them are still there as he prepares to lock up at eight?  That’s unexpected.  The younger kid can’t be more than ten and even the older boy doesn’t even look sixteen; surely someone is expecting them home by now?  On the other hand, neither kid is dressed for the winter weather—ragged jeans, flannel shirts—so Cas feels badly for turning them out. 

“Closing up soon, guys,” Cas finally warns from behind the counter, where he’s whiling away the last fifteen minutes of his shift with an old copy of _The Journal of American Pharmaceutical Compounding_.  He gets a lot of his professional reading done on Tuesdays and Fridays, which is when he’s assigned to this pharmacy.  Business is slow, but central office has determined they need someone here from nine to six twice a week to meet some obscure quota about pharmacists-per-hundred-thousand-rural-residents.  That someone is usually Cas.  His coworkers think this post is beneath them because the pharmacy is more like an old-fashioned general store than a high-tech dispensary—it stocks a little of everything, from farm tools and candy to comics and the latest state-mandated medicines.   Probably did a good business before the interstate took away all the local travel.  Cas likes to think about some old-school druggist mixing up compounds, sharing gossip with the locals, being part of the community and not just an anonymous figure in a white lab coat.  He is confident in his professional credentials: being asked to sell the occasional greeting card doesn’t make him less of a pharmacist.  If anything, this is probably the best-stocked pharmacy in the county: Cas has plenty of time for organization and documentation and stock turn-over is low.  Business-wise, it’s a good day if he can move some Advil to a Roadhouse customer trying to stave off a hangover.

 Cas figures the boys come from the trailer park.  The other students have melted away, wandering home on their own or picked up by older siblings after football practice lets out.  Cas folds down the top of his page and checks his watch. He’s about to repeat his last call when he notices one of the kids—the younger one—clumsily slip a comic book  under his shirt.

“Hey!”  Cas snaps.

The boy startles and the comic book hits the floor as the kid sends a panicked look between Cas and the older boy.  He hesitates for a moment and then makes a break for the door.  He’s long-legged and quick, but Cas has fast reflexes, too.  He swings himself over the old wooden counter and he would have been able to catch the thief by his plaid shirttails if the older boy hadn’t suddenly darted in front of the door, blocking it with his body.  Over his head, Cas can see the smaller kid racing down the road, into the darkness.

 “Leave him alone!”

Cas glares at the remaining boy, revising his earlier estimate—not sixteen, maybe fourteen, though you wouldn’t know it from the stubborn expression on his face.  He’s at that intermediate stage when childhood fragility is just growing into adolescence, where his shoulders are broad but his limbs are still willowy.  But if he’s at all intimidated to be bodily holding off a fully grown man, he doesn’t show it. 

“Leave _him_ alone?  How about your friend leaves the merchandise alone?”

The boy doesn’t move.  Cas considers forcing him to the side, but changes his mind.  He turns suddenly, crosses the store, and sweeps up the backpack the other kid had dropped in his haste.  He unzips the small pouch pocket and reads the name inked inside: “Dean Winchester.”

The boy blocking the door flinches slightly.

“That your friend’s name?”  Cas asks, wondering if it’s universal for mothers to label their son’s belongings, wondering what kind of mother would leave her kid for hours at the store near the bus stop. “Dean?  If I call the school and get a phone number to go with that name, what do you think your friend’s parents will have to say about shoplifting?”

The tough-guy act lasts for another ten seconds, and then the boy heaves a sigh.  “Brother.”

Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Sammy’s not my friend,” the kid says.  “He’s my brother.”

“Sammy?”

“Sam,” the boy corrects himself.  “He doesn’t like being called Sammy anymore.”

“Well, your _brother_ has a problem with taking things that don’t belong to him.  Like comics he hasn’t paid for.  And,” Cas hefts the bag by one strap, “Dean’s backpack.”

The boy casts a single longing glance out at the dark street.  Then he looks back, his gaze frank and serious:  “I’m Dean.  It’s my backpack—was my backpack.  I gave it to him ‘cause he left his in…”  he trails off, looks away, then looks back.  His eyes, Cas notices, are an unusual hazel-green.   “We had to leave our last place fast and he left his behind and he really cares about that kind of school stuff, so I let him have mine.  And I told him to take the comic.  So it’s my fault, really.”  He takes a step forward, leaving the doorway with the air of a condemned criminal forsaking certain escape.  “It’s my fault,” he repeats.

Cas isn’t quite sure what to say.  He’d reacted to the shoplifting automatically, not really thinking what he would do when he caught the thief. 

“What did you want with a comic book?”

The boy shrugs.

“Dean.”  Cas waits as the boy’s eyes roam around the darkening store and finally return to meet his own.  “You can tell me, or you can tell your parents when I ask them to meet us here and listen to your explanation of this situation.”  Cas doesn’t know much about teenagers: he has to hope this one doesn’t come from an unsupervised household, has to bet that the threat of parental involvement will mean something.

It must, because Dean finally reaches into his pocket and pulls out something so small and unexpected that Cas almost isn’t sure what he’s seeing.

“Where did you get that?”  Cas asks, knowing it for a stupid question even as he says it.  There’s only one place this side of Lawrence that anyone could get a gynogenetic tablet.

Dean nods toward a cabinet on the far wall, the one that holds all the gender reassignment medication.  The one that Cas hasn’t opened once since he stocked it six months ago.  The one that is still locked up tight.

“I picked the lock,” Dean’s tone is matter-of-fact.  “Sammy didn’t know what I was doing—you can’t even see that part of the store from the comic book section. I just told him to create a diversion.  But he’s a really honest kid, he didn’t know what he was doing, and he’ll be sad if he loses all his schoolwork and stuff.  So if you have to call my Dad…”  his voice dies again and he swallows before he continues.  “If you have to callDad, please don’t say anything about Sam.  It was my idea and I did it.”

Cas stares at the little packet containing a small yellow capsule nestled in the kid’s outstretched hand and, above it, the faint parallel scars that peek out from his worn shirt cuff.  The bookbag he’s holding suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.  He feels more exhausted than he should after a quiet workday in a pharmacy that never has customers. These things are not supposed to happen out here in the quiet country-side. Jesus Christ, what a mess.

Cas scrubs his hand across his face.  “That won’t get you high, you know.”

“ _What?!_ ”  The boy sound genuinely shocked.

“That tablet you’ve got there.  It’s got no psychotropic properties whatsoever and it is illegal to possess it without a psychiatrist’s scrip.  The street value is absolutely nil, so you won’t make a dime if you try to sell it.”

“No!—I would never… I’m not some _drug-dealer_!”  The teenager actually has the nerve to sound affronted, like he’ll confess to picking locks and suborning younger kids and stealing medicine, but being accused of selling his ill-gotten gains is an insult to his honor.

“Oh, really?  So what was the plan, criminal mastermind?”

“I know what it does,” Dean scowls.  He pulls his hand back, fidgets with the pill. “And I wasn’t going to sell it.”

Cas waits.

“I wasn’t!”  Dean insists.  “I was just going to—I mean, it was for.” He stops, chews his lip.  “Me.”

The store is so quiet, Cas can hear the fluorescent lights humming.   He’d figured it for a dare, or some stupid experimentation, until he’d noticed the scars on Dean’s wrists.  Then he’d imagined a teenager so desperate to get out of town that he’d grab whatever he thought he could sell off at school to bankroll an escape.  Now he thinks he’s really in over his head.

Cas holds out his hand and Dean reluctantly tips the yellow tablet into his waiting palm. “You said you know what it does,” says Cas at last. 

Dean nods. With his eyes cast down like that, he looks very young—long lashes, bitten lips, almost submissively pretty.

“Gender transformation.”  Cas wants to be sure there’s not confusion on this point.  This boy is interested in a capsule that has one medical purpose: to strip him of the male sexual characteristics he was born with and transform him into a female.

Dean nods again.

“That’s a big decision,” Cas starts, ready to launch into the spiel that he learned as part of his state-mandated dysphoria training.  He’s never had to use it before.

The kid rolls his eyes, perfect teenager.  “I know.”

“And there are medical professionals available to guide you thr—”

“I mean, I _know_.”  The boy isn’t rolling his eyes now: he’s looking at Cas with a calm, steady look far older than his years.  “I know what I want.  And it’s not… _this_.”  He waves his hand dismissively, encompassing his old jeans and ragged sneakers. 

Cas takes a deep breath.  This is not the conversation he thought he would be having, but there’s something so vulnerable about this kid, confused and alone in an empty store.  “Look, I was just a little older than you when I realized that, uh, that I wasn’t interested in.  In girls.  Or not _mostly_ interested in girls…”  he checks Dean’s face for comprehension.  How much could this kid even know about the spectrum of human sexuality, growing up in the boring middle of nowhere?  Sure enough, a thoughtful look is stealing over the boy’s face…but not for the reason Cas suspects.

“You’re a medical professional!”  Dean says.

Cas blinks at the non-sequitur.  “Uh.  Yes.  In a manner of speaking.  I mean, I have a doctorate in pharmacy, which is a branch of medicine.”  This is as good an opportunity as any for a public service announcement: “So you see, having tastes that are a little…that are not quite—mainstream.  That doesn’t limit you as much as they once did, so there’s no need for anything drastic because—”

Dean cuts him off again.  “ _You_ could be my medical professional.”

Again, not the conversational gambit Cas was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said there were medical professionals available…why not you?”

This is something the dysphoria training did not cover.  “Psychologists,” Cas says flatly.  “I meant, there are _psychologists_ trained to help people deal with this sort of thing.”

“But I’m not crazy!”  Dean yelps.

“You’re very…young,” Cas offers, lamely.  He’s always thought it was a mistake to have the same group of professionals treat gender dysphoria and mental illness, but he hadn’t expected a teenager to pick up on that nuance. “You might change your mind.”

“But the pills are temporary, right?”

“Well…”  Cas briefly considers lying, but he is, as Dean has pointed out, a medical professional.  He has obligations, one of which is providing honest and factual information. “Yes.  Tablets like these,” he shakes the glassine envelope, “would cause significant but temporary changes; without a genetic fixative the changes wouldn’t be permanent.”

“So I could try them out and if I didn’t like it, I’d just go back to this?”  Again, the dismissive gesture, like he’s talking about a serviceable but unattractive outfit and not himself.  Go back to _this._ Not _go back to normal_ or _go back to being me_. 

“It doesn’t work like that,” snaps Cas, frustrated that this beautiful boy is so unhappy with himself.  “You don’t just get to try on different sexualities until you find the one you like!”

Dean looks at him somberly.  “Why not?”

“What?”

“I said, why not?  Why can’t it work like that?” Dean shuffles his feet, then brings his gaze back to Cas.  He starts haltingly, and then picks up speed, a torrent of words that has been penned up too long. “I don’t feel…right.  In myself.  I used to think maybe no one did, like maybe this was just normal.  But I’ve tried some stuff, and nothing’s changes.  And when I asked Sammy, he didn’t know what I was talking about.  And Sammy’s the smartest person I know!  And my dad says…”  Dean shrugs.  Cas never does find out what his dad says. “I just want to try something else, just for a little bit.  To see if it’s better.  That’s what medicine is for, right?  To make you feel better?”

Cas has nothing to say.  This raggedy little shoplifter has just encapsulated his entire professional purpose:  to make medicines that make people feel better. 

But Dean misinterprets his silence.

“I could,” the boy licks his lips—nervous, but something else, too.  “I could make it worth your while.”

It’s clear from the state of his clothes, from the fact that he’s shoplifting controlled substances, that this kid doesn’t have a dollar to his na…oh.  Oh!  Cas realizes he’s just been propositioned.  By a teenager! He can feel the heat of a blush creep up from his collar.

Dean sees it and gives him a heartbreakingly gentle smile.  “Don’t worry, I’m not…I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time, or anything.”

Now Cas is certain that his mortification shows on his face; it must look like disapproval because Dean’s own expression goes cold.

 “Like I said, I’ve tried some stuff,” Dean shoves his sleeves up to his elbows, hooks his thumbs into his beltloops.  He’s trying to look tough and Cas has to admit, it works.  The kid in front of him suddenly looks older, tougher, not nearly so innocent.  “I’m not naive.  I’ve given this a lot of thought. You can turn me down, but I’ll just go over to the Roadhouse and get one of those guys to buy me the pills.”

 “No one is going to just slip gynogenetic tablets to a kid! You can’t even get these without a psychiatric prescription!”

“When was the last time you even heard of a shrink working in this county?”  And when Cas can’t answer, Dean continues.  “Another question for you: where do you think your pharmaceutical reps drink when they’re in town?”  the kid glances in the direction of the Roadhouse and gives Cas a slow, lazy smile that is years older than his age.  His voice drops an octave, dark and promising: “They’re on the road a lot, those guys.  Must get lonely.  And I can be very persuasive.”

Cas is used to scanning people’s forearms for track marks and Dean had fully revealed the scars on his wrist when he’d pushed up his sleeves.  They’re faint but jagged, not new.  Cas has to wonder just how much Dean hates the body he’s in.  Enough to do something drastic if he thought he would be stuck in it?  Cas is still trying to decide when Dean shrugs again—“So long, Doc”—and saunters toward the door. 

Castiel can’t help but watch him go. Physically, Dean is a curious mix: pretty lips, long lashes, but with powerful shoulders and adangerous swagger—Cas can imagine he’d find more than few takers at a place like the Roadhouse.  And after the Roadhouse patrons have had their fun, and it’s time to come through with their part of the deal?  Well, Cas knows  better than Dean that no one is going to risk a medical license or a cushy pharma job for the sake of some mixed-up kid in a no-account town.  Cas doesn’t have to live in that body, so who is he to admire it?  And how would he feel if someday soon it ends up bloodless in a bathtub or dumped by the side of the highway?

Dean is halfway down the darkened street when Cas calls from the doorway, “Wait!”

The negotiations are minimal—Cas knows he has the upper hand.  “You get _one_ temporary tablet.  _Not_ this one,”  Cas tucks the yellow tablet into his pocket.   He walks over to the gender reassignment meds: a row of neat glass bottles in pastel colors locked into the top half of an old white cabinet.  “That one,”  he points to one bottle on the middle shelf.  “Go on,” he urges when Dean hesitates.

Dean gets two mismatched pieces of metal out of his pocket—one looks like an unfolded paperclip—and proceeds to pick the lock like a professional.  It is fascinating to watch: the crease of concentration that appears on his forehead; the quick, clever fingers; the pleased smile that darts across his face when the lock makes a faint _click_ and springs open.  Cas immediately wants him to do it again, mostly just to see the way he unconsciously chews his bottom lip, but instead he plucks a bottle of pale pink tablets from the shelf.

“Theoretically,” Cas begins, because he’s not going to insult Dean by asking if he’s _sure_ , “the effect window lasts for four days, but you won’t really see a change until day two unless your metabolism is insane.  I’m giving you my phone number and I want yours: if you don’t check in every day, I’m calling emergency services.  Doubt me?”

Dean shakes his head, mutely, like any word he says might cause Cas to change his mind.

“I’ll be back Friday—I work in Lawrence on tomorrow and Thursday—and I expect to see you standing in front of this pharmacy when I arrive to open it.  Will that be a problem?”

Dean shakes his head again. “No.  I gotta get Sam on the middle school bus at 7:30, so I’ll be down here anyway.”

“Okay, then.”  Cas has been deliberately brusque up to this point: nerves, mostly—he still can’t quite believe he’s doing this—but also because he wants to make sure Dean isn’t easily dissuaded. Now he lets himself soften a little bit.  The same boy who is ready to trade sexual favors for gender-altering drugs is also diligent about getting his kid brother to school on time. Cas finds that oddly endearing.  He shakes the pill bottle, hearing the medicine rattle inside. “I’m going to give you what we call a temporary upper cosmetic.  It’s the least disruptive of the gynogenetic protocol.  It’ll, uhm.  Change your…chest.  But there won’t be any significant hormone component.”  A male-to-female temporary lower would probably be easier to conceal, but Cas isn’t sure that trading Dean’s dick for a vagina right out of the gate would be the wisest thing. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Dean nods.  “Yes,” he answers, when it becomes clear that Cas is waiting for real, audible words.

“You can take the tablet with you if you want some time to think about it,” offers Cas, against his better judgment.  “Change your mind, just bring it back Friday, no questions asked.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “I’d rather—I mean, I know there won’t be any changes right away, but I’d rather do it here.  Tonight.  If that’s okay.”

Cas isn’t sure why, but he likes that Dean feels comfortable enough to ask.

The pharmacy doesn’t just look like a general store: it used to be one.  And in the back corner of the crowded storeroom is a creaky staircase that leads to a little loft room with a rickety bed, an empty bookshelf, an old porcelain sink.  When Cas was first given the job, He’d set up a coffeemaker on top of the bookshelf.  He imagined the old storekeeper sneaking up for naps when custom was slow.  Now he fills a mug with tap water, makes the kid sit down on the old mattress, and tips one pink pill into his palm.

Dean looks at it, and then gives Cas a cheeky grin.  “Cheers,” he says, popping the tablet into his mouth and washing it down with a gulp of water. 

Cas has never knowingly met anyone whose taken gender reassignment medication; his knowledge is purely textbook.  So he has to ask: “Do you feel…?”

“Different?”  Dean wrinkles his nose, thinks for a moment.  “Not really.  Not yet.”

 _Not yet_ , Cas thinks as he watches the boy walk down the road toward the trailers. Textbook knowledge is not useless: he knows exactly how those drugs are compounded and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the effects they’d have on Dean’s teenaged body.  He’ll know on Friday morning.  _Not yet, but soon_.


	2. Pink Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where we get into the porn. Please read the TAGS, NOTES, and full PROMPT []. Remember that, although this is tagged gender dysphoria and body dysphoria to prevent inadvertent triggering, this condition Dean has in this story is absolutely fictitious and does not reflect anyone's real experiences.

On Friday morning, Cas is too eager to wait for 9:00; he arrives so early, he passes the middle school bus as he makes the turn by the Roadhouse. As soon as he does, he can see a slight figure waiting in front of the pharmacy.  Maybe he’s not the only one who is impatient.

There is a single awkward moment, after Castiel has parked and rushed from the back entrance to open the front door and usher Dean in.  He’s careful to lock the door immediately—wouldn’t do to have some rare early-morning customer walk in.

“Hi,” mutters Dean. The kid holds himself a little stiffly, shoulders rounded. 

“Hi.” To Cas’s eyes, Dean looks the same, though it would be hard to tell in the baggy, oversized clothes.  After all, it was only a small dose.  “How are you feeling?”

It’s the same question Cas asks of all him clients, but the look Dean gives him is pure gratefulness.  Cas has to wonder how long it has been since anyone asked Dean anything about himself and actually cared about the answer.

“I think something’s…I mean, I _like_ —it’s just…” Dean breaks off, clearly not wanting to complain.  He can’t know how adorable he looks when he bites his lip like that.

Cas tilts his head, captures the boy’s gaze.  “Tell me.”

“They started, uhm, the second day, just like you said.  It was fine at first.  It was…really great, actually,” Dean smiles shyly.   “But then yesterday, they began.  Uhm.  Growing? More, I mean.  And they’re a little sore?”

That actually sounds to Cas just like the expected rate of development, but he can see that Dean is a little worried.  Not unreasonable, Cas realizes; with no one to tell about his symptoms, he’s probably been inventing all sorts of horror stories.

This next part must be handled delicately, even though Cas’s curiosity is almost making his hands shake. “Would you like me to take a look?”  he asks gently.

He expects to have to convince Dean, but the boy surprises him by agreeing immediately.

***

The storeroom is lit by the ugly fluorescents as the shop, but Cas doesn’t turn them on.  He navigates by the early grey light spilling down the staircase from the loft.  There’s a stack of heavy bags in that corner—40 pound sacks of rock salt, he thinks, piled up by the stairs—and he pats the top, encouraging Dean to sit like it is a make-shift exam table.  When he knees  down, the boy’s collar button his level with his eyes. 

Dean starts to unbutton his baggy flannel shirt, tugging clumsily until Cas’s larger hands come up to calm and cover his.  Underneath, he’s wearing a tight grey t-shirt.  No, not tight: too small.  Probably one of his brother’s, Cas realizes.  That’s the moment—right there, on his knees in a puddle of sunlight in the cramped storeroom—that Cas becomes aware of his dick thickening in his khakis:  the moment he realizes that Dean’s stolen one of his baby brother’s shirts to act as a bra, to support his new little titties.  And they are little: apple-sized, barely a B-cup, Cas estimates, cupping one through the softened cotton of the shirt.  Dean’s breath hitches at the sensation.

“Shh,” Cas soothes, brushing his thumb across the taut fabric until he feels Dean’s nipple start to harden.  “Can I see?”

Dean nods, shifting his weight behind him onto his hands in a way that pushes his chest out, offering.  Cas gently folds the shirt up, revealing the waistband of the jeans and a sliver of muscled belly.  Another fold, then another, and the shirt is snug under the curve of Dean’s new breasts. They lift a little when Cas pushes the shirt higher, then tumble free, bouncing enough to make Dean gasp.  Cas cups one; it fills his palm, a little squeeze—the tissue seems uniformly dense and firm and exactly what you’d expect of a newly-developed teenager.  Teenage _girl_ , corrects Cas. 

 “How is that?”

“Good,” already some of the anxiety has leeched out of Dean’s voice. “Good.  Better, I think?”

 “You’re fine,” Cas assures him. “They’re just…new.”

 _Perfect_ , is what he should say, because they are:  slightly conical, with puffy, ballet-pink nipples that pop in the cool air of the storeroom.  The skin across Dean’s collarbone is pale and delicate; Cas can see blue veins and a smattering of freckles.   He breathes a stream of warm air, watches the nipple tighten.  Just like a real…well, Cas figures, they _are_ real.

“Could you…?”  Dean starts, and then bites his lip again.

Cas lets one hand slip down Dean’s side, encouraging. “Yes?”

“Your, uh, your mouth.”

Has Dean been experimenting over the last few days?  Almost certainly.  And this isn’t something he’ll be able to manage by himself, not until he goes up a few cup sizes.  Cas is a little honored to be asked.  Honored and aroused.  He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t touch unless he was asked.  And now he has been.

He ducks his head, keeping an eye on Dean’s face, which shows nothing but curiosity, and traces the circle of on aureole with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh!” squeaks Dean and then, after Cas has licked the second nipple and returned to the first, “Oh.  I thought it would be…”

Dean sounds a little disappointed, and then Cas suckles, quick and hard. Dean’s words vanish into a gasp.  Cas does it again, pulling hard on the nipple, and then sits back, unsure of just how sensitive the boy is.  He finds Dean staring down at him, wide-eyed, his new breasts rising and falling with every shuddering breath.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” Dean pants, reaching to wind his fingers in Cas’s hair and drag the older man’s head exactly where he wants it.

At some point after Cas has blindly stripped off Dean’s shirts so he can mouth more of his smooth, hot torso, the boy slips off the sacks of rock salt and eases himself into Cas’s lap.  Cas is aware of long legs winding around his waist.  When he first uses his teeth— _carefully, so carefully_ —on Dean’s sweet tits, the kid’s strong hips buck against him so hard that he becomes aware of an erection that rivals his own.  He keeps one arm supporting the boy, palm on his lower back, but uses the other hand to pull open the old jeans.  He rubs his cheek again Dean’s hard nipples and steals a glance at the small, curving cock the pops out of the worn denim.  The teen is uncut and his whole, slim body quivers when Cas gently pushes back the sticky foreskin so his reddened knob peeks out.

“Ohyes—touch me, pleaseplease,” Dean begs, hardly breathing to pause between words.

“Touch yourself, sweetheart,” Cas urges.  “Show me what you like?”

A flush of embarrassment spreads down Dean’s throat and over his breasts, already mottled from Cas’s kisses, but he obediently takes himself in hand.  He jerks himself quickly, almost ruthlessly,  a motion that makes his tits jostle hypnotically.  Cas feels the thighs around his waist tighten as Dean grinds against him just before the boy grunts and spills, nearly-clear seed spattering his flat belly and the undercurve of one breast.

Cas kisses him then, for the first time, puts his tongue between those delicious lips until Dean is squirming against him.  Then he presses a gentle kiss to each nipple.  The moment of truth. “Really, now.  How do you feel? Do you…like them?”

Castiel has read up on medical gender reassignment over his days in Lawrence.  Only about 20% of people prescribed temporary uppers make the change permanent.  For some, it’s enough of a change to make them appreciate what they have, but for others, it whets an appetite that begs to be fulfilled. 

“Yeah,” breathes Dean.  “I should’a been scared or worried, when I started.  You know, changing.  But I wasn’t.  It was so good—Wednesday, Thursday.  And then when they started to hurt a little, I thought it meant they were going away or something…”  He’s still pinned between Cas’s body and the stacked bags of rock salt, but the thought makes him hitch himself higher on Cas’s lap, like he’s felt a sudden chill. He winds his arms around Cas’s neck, trying to get as close as he can.

“And you don’t…”  Cas tries to phrase the question neutrally, “you don’t want them to go away?”

“Nnn,”  Dean doesn’t even get a full word out, he’s so quick to pull himself up against Cas.  Cas can feel the spongy softness of the boy’s new tits against his own dress shirt.  The hand that had been on Dean’s low back is now shifted perilously close to the jeans gaping over his ass.

“Shh…” Cas whispers, “We can talk about it.”  He widens the circles he’s rubbing into Dean’s back, lets his fingers brush under the waistband of Dean’s boxers.  The boy doesn’t startle again, doesn’t pull away.  Cas gets a hand around on asscheek, cups it like he had Dean’s breast.  “We can talk about what you want.”

“I think I want,” Dean’s breath is hot on Cas’s ear, his cheek resting on Cas’s shoulder.  He takes a deep breath—his tits compress against Ca’s chest.  “I want you to fuck me.”

“Dean…” Cas begins.  He’s not completely surprised, of course, and he’s not exactly unwilling, but… The kid shifts in his arms and suddenly, Cas’s fingers are brushing his hole.  He’s slick there, not as tight as Cas had imagined.

“I’ve been trying,”  admits Dean, “just fingers, last night.” Fuck, Cas can _not_ let himself imagine that, but Dean is still talking.  “I want to know what it feels like,” the teenager  insists.  “Now , I mean.  With—with boobs.  To know if it feels like enough.” A quick kiss against Cas’s jaw.  “Please?”

Cas remembers Dean said he wasn’t a virgin, that he’d “tried things” to see if they made him more at home in his body.  And it’s not like he’d be taking anything the boy doesn’t want to give.

Cas shifts the boy’s weight so he can see Dean’s face.  The boy’s eyes are shining, his lips puffy; his nipples are swollen a rich pink.   “If I say no, will you ask someone else?”

Dean hesitates.  “Maybe.”

Cas isn’t sure he believes it—the kid seems precocious but not really promiscuous.  He’s decided to trust Cas because Cas had the medicine he’d wanted; that doesn’t mean he’d confide in someone else…and the gynogenetic effects will only be good for another day at most.  Maybe the kid is bluffing, or maybe he’s really that desperate: Cas realizes it doesn’t change his decision at all.  “Go upstairs,” he says.  ‘I’m going to put up the closed sign.

Cas flips the front door sign to “closed for business” just as the high school bus trundles away from the stop.  Dean won’t be on it today.  The he gets a condom from the stash behind the counter (can’t risk displaying them and shocking mid-western sensibilities).  He’s clean, but he can’t help but wonder how Dean knows so much about the rough trade at the Roadhouse.  At the last minute, he grabs a bottle of baby oil from the pharmacy's infant section.

***

The loft has a large east-facing window but no curtains, so the room is filled with sunlight when Cas arrives.  Dean has pulled off all his clothes and waits on his hands and knees on the bare mattress.  Cas had thought about his cock in the kid’s mouth, but he’s too hard and eager to bother by the time he has his own clothes off and the condom gingerly rolled on.  The boy hadn’t been lying about his experience: his hole is tight and pink but he pushes back and opens soft and slick as Cas’s oil-wet finger sinks in deep.  With a second finger, Dean bows his back into a submissive arch.   Cas’s free hand roams over his freckled back,  down to the sparse nest of hair between his skinny thighs.  The boy is hard again, balls swinging but little cock curved tight against his belly.  He’s got solid narrow hips and shoulders that are just starting to broaden with puberty.  In short, he’s still all boy except for the soft mounds on his chest. The ones he still calls 'boobs'.  

“Look so pretty on your knees for me, tits hanging down,” Cas mutters, and Dean shifts his hips, makes a soft, needy noise.

“You ready for me?” Cas taps his cockhead against Dean’s hole, sees a tempting flash of nipple as the boy half-turn to nod.

Dean makes the most precious sound as Cas takes him—a sort of surprised, breathless giggly whimper—and the he goes silent, head tipping back, eyes closed for six inches of long, smooth slide. He clamps down with a sudden, pained grunt, but Cas massages his hips, kneads the tight globes of his ass and persuades him to open a little more.  By the time Cas bottoms out, Dean’s arms have collapsed and his thighs are shaking.  Cas holds him up with one arm around his hips while the other hand fumbles with the kid’s breasts.  It takes three long slides out and quick thrusts in to determine the pattern.  Then Cas pauses, all the way in, kisses the boy’s shoulder.  “Your nipples are hard,” he observes, pinching the evidence, “ and when I pull them  you get so tight around me.”

Dean moans, hips rocking around the stretch.

“Did that happen before?  Or is that new?”

An unintelligible sound, like Dean's forgotten how to form true words.

Cas has to thrust again—kid’s so tight, he can’t bear to stay still.  He wraps himself around the gangly form beneath him.   It’s mind-blowing, the combination of soft, blatantly female tits with the narrow, boyish pelvis bucking back against him.  Dean sobs with pleasure when he orgasms, then lets Cam pound him into the wet spot until he comes. 

***

Cas vaguely remembers twisting off Dean’s back so as not to crush him, and then everything is dim and fuzzy until a shifting weight on his groin finally forces the pharmacist to surface from his pleasurable half-sleep. Cas opens his eyes to see Dean straddling him, half-hard and so sleek with baby oil that a bead of it forms on one nipple. Cas captures the drop with one finger, then palms the little breast.  Dean twists into the touch, rubbing his cock against Cas’s belly.  The motion is starting to make Cas hard, too, though he doubts he can come again.

Cas smooths the excess oil up toward Dean’s shoulders, then lets it cascade down the slope of his breasts. “Dripping like milk,” he remarks idly.

Dean freezes.

Cas’s sex-fogged brain takes a moment to register it. “What’s wrong?” 

Dean stares down at him.  “Could I?  I mean...what you said.  About milk?”

Cas tries to determine if the kid is thrilled or horrified.  “Not with the treatment you’re on now.”

“But it’s possible? It could happen?”

“Possible, yes.  But it wouldn’t just _happen._ I mean, if someone were to finish a full course of gynogenetic medication—not just the cosmetic portions, but the full hormonal treatment and the fixative…well, that person would be, technically, female.”

“And?”  Dean rocks his hips, his slack hole catching the head of Cas’s cock.  _Thrilled_ , Cas decides: the idea of more significant physical changes definitely excites the boy. 

“C’mon,” Cas urges, reaching around Dean’s thigh to line himself up  and push in.  Dean’s mouth falls open at the stretch, but he pushes back gamely.  “Ride me and I’ll tell you.”

Soon, Dean settles into a slow, rolling slide, with Cas gently rubbing his thighs. 

“Play with your tits,” suggests Cas, and when the Dean obeys, he receives his reward: “So, there are cosmetic reassignment tablets—hmm, _faster_? Oh, good boy—but also ones that induce internal changes.  The male-to-female ones work best: they generate a complete reproductive tract, ovaries, uterus… yeah, just…deeper okay? _Mmm_ …”

Cas pauses to catch his breath and enjoy the view: Dean’s hips circling in time with his fingers teasing his nipples.  When he slides particularly deep, the boy grunts and his little cock twitches…Cas thinks he’ll miss that if Dean decides to transform completely.

Dean grinds himself impatiently and Cas resumes his explanation.  “So if a person is female—either by birth, or by medical transformation—it’s relatively easy to induce lactation.”

“Yeah?”  Dean grunts. “Easy?” Cas is jacking him and he’s a little breathless as he rocks back onto Cas’s dick and then pushes forward into his big, oil-slick hand

“You know the easiest way?” teases Cas.  He can feel the boy getting close, recognizes the flush on his breasts, the pulse of his back channel.  He goes too far, though, when he thumbs the kid’s cockhead: Dean comes dry and beautiful, an orgasm that leaves him strung out and shaking.

Cas holds the boy until the last of the aftershocks have passed, then pillows himself on the boy’s tits and rubs himself off one last time.  Dean is wobbly and oversensitive, so Cas flips the mattress, wipes him down with paper towels from the pharmacy's home product shelf, and sits by the bed, stroking his hair until he falls asleep.  Then Cas goes to mind the counter—sells a map and a bottle of cold medication, just like it is any other Friday.  In the slow spell of the early afternoon, he takes out the medication registry and, for the first time ever, falsifies an entry.  Then he goes to wake Dean.

By the time the middle school bus arrives, Dean is dressed and ready to meet Sam.  His new shape is invisible again under layers of shirts and in the pocket of the flannel one is a small twist of paper with a single blue capsule.


	3. Blu Pilll

Cas is actually talking with Ellen, who runs the Roadhouse, when he next sees Dean.  It's Tuesday and Ellen has walked over to the school bus with her daughter (Jo must be around Dean’s age and is careful not to do anything so uncool as be seen with her mother).  Ellen's true purpose seems to be complaining to Cas about property taxes; it's her favorite topic, no matter how many times Cas explains that he is contracted out to run the pharmacy but doesn't actually own the store.  Cas doesn't even spot Dean, so well does he fit into the crowd of high schoolers, until he strolls in, picks out a travel packet of tissues and a package of gum.  He doesn't make eye contact, just stuffs a knot of bills into Cas’s hand and darts back out to meet the bus.  It’s not until Cas is alone—bus and Ellen long gone—that he unsnarls the wad of singles and reads the words scrawled onto the scrap of notebook paper: _I’m so wet_.

They’ve been in contact, of course:  Dean had texted Cas Saturday night to assure him that the upper cosmetic had run its course, and again Sunday to report that he was about to take the blue pill. That had been one of Cas’s conditions before handing it over: Dean could only have one tablet active in his system at a time.  To himself, Cas admits that it is probably a foolish precaution.  After all, psychiatrists prescribe all kinds of combinations: lower but not upper, upper without lower, internal without external…21st century pharmaceuticals allow for bespoke sexuality.  And it is unenforceable: if Dean wants to abuse the drugs, there’s not much Cas can do about it miles away in Lawrence.  But setting the limits makes him feel like he’s still in control, still the responsible professional.  Also, Cas realizes that he likes it when Dean obeys him.

The texts had been disappointingly brief:  “Taking blue, then bed” and ten hours later, simply, “Worked.”

“Feeling OK?” Cas had texted back and then stood anxiously staring at his phone in the middle of his Monday assignment—a busy pharmacy in a big-box store. 

“Good,”  Dean had replied. 

And that is all, until the note.  Cas can’t decide if Dean meant to be raunchy or if he was simply reporting a fact. How well does Dean understand female sexual physiology, anyway?

Two of Cas’s regulars come in to pick up prescriptions, but as soon as they’ve left, Cas’s mind returns to his new favorite topic. He remembers that the tablets are meant to do their work as the subject is sleeping.  The system for using the slowed metabolism of the sleep state as a trigger had won a team of Dutch doctors the Nobel Prize for medicine. What’s that like? Cas wonders.  To wake up one morning to such a significant, long-desired change, and no one to share it with. 

A lost motorist stops in to purchase a bottle of water and a map;  another person comes in to drop off a prescription.  Cas’s day is settling into its usual slow Tuesday routine—things will only get quieter in the afternoon—when he hears a rattle that he realizes is the storeroom door.

The woman dropping off her prescription has barely stepped out the front door when Cas locks it, flips the sign to ‘closed,’ and dashes into the storeroom.

Dean is waiting outside the delivery entrance.

“What are y—”

“Hitched from the high school,”  he explains hurriedly.  “You have to check in for homeroom or the office calls your parents and my dad is home this week.  Didn’t want Mrs. Harvelle to see me so I couldn’t go around front.  Are you gonna let me in?”

Cas steps aside to let him enter. Mrs. Harvelle is Ellen, over at the Roadhouse, and Cas is astonished that Dean has even thought of her.  The boy has a criminal mind—what next?  Hot-wiring cars? Credit card fraud?

“You really shouldn’t hitch-hike,” is all Cas can think to say when he has pulled the door shut and turned to face Dean, who is looking particularly pretty with a cold-air blush on his cheeks.  “It’s not safe.”

Dean rolls his eyes, shrugging out of a hand-me-down jacket.  “ _That_ is what you want to talk about right now?”

“I’m serious!”  but even as Cas is saying it, his eyes are tracing Dean’s body.  The subtle curve is gone from the kid’s chest, but there’s something about his legs…

“So.  You, uh.  Wanna see?”  Dean’s voice is falsely casual, and he’s unbuttoning his jeans before Cas can even reply. 

Jeans and boxers are shoved down in one motion and then, with a flirty little flip of his plaid shirttail, Dean reveals the sweetest little peach of a pussy. 

“Woke up with it Monday morning, like it had always been there,” says Dean. “Had some crazy dreams that night, though.  Go ahead—feels just like the real thing.”

Until Dean says that, Cas hadn’t even realized that he’d put out his hand to touch.  No use denying now, but he pauses long enough the Dean grabs his wrist and guides him between his thighs. 

Dean’s pussylips are hairless and, as promised, wet.  Cas traces the labia with one gentle fingertip and, even so, he can feel the slick.

“I can…,” Dean whispers, even though they are alone.“I can take more.”

“Oh, really?”  Cas asks archly, and he shouldn’t tease, not when the boy’s lashes are fluttering like that, not when he’s spreading his clothing-tangled feet so widely that he has to put one hand on Cas’s shoulder for balance.  He shouldn’t tease, but he does, sliding along the length of Dean’s gash.  “Have you been playing with yourself, Dean?”

Dean nods jerkily.  “Shower.  ‘N once, after Sammy was asleep.”

Jesus, Cas imagines that:  Dean exploring himself in secret.  “Did you try, uh, inside?”

Dean nods again, biting his lip.  He looks up as Cas with wide, glassy eyes.  If he blinks, Cas promise himself—if Dean blinks, I’ll stop immediately.

Dean doesn’t blink.

“And?”

A moment of silence, just the squish sound of Cas’s fingers.  Cas has his thumb near the clitoral hood, but he doesn’t even have to move: the boy’s own hips are working in tight little circles.

“I liked it,” Dean bursts out.  “I had to, had to bite th’uh.  Uh. Pillow.”

“Would you like _me_ to touch you?  Iinside?”

“Ye-yeah,”  And then like he’s remembered his manners, “Please?”

“It didn’t hurt?  Nothing too tight, when you…?”

A frantic headshake of denial.   Cas had wondered if Dean’s pussy would have a hymen—it was, after all, new—or if the drugs would somehow interact with his body to recognize that Dean, male or female, was no virgin.  The latter, evidently.  Interesting.

“Ok, sweetheart.  Don't have to beg.”

More urgent nodding.  Dean’s newly-flat chest is rising and falling at such a rapid rate that he’s not wasting oxygen on words.  He’s so wet that Cas is in up to his second knuckle before his hips twitch at the penetration.

“Oh!” a nearly breathless gasp. 

“That’s right, like that.  Gonna give you another, Dean, yes?”

“Mmm…”

Despite his play, the boy is tight, maybe virgin tight, and Cas goes slowly, careful to avoid Dean’s sensitive little clit.  Two fingertips breaching, then sliding, finally scissoring; a kiss on Dean’s sweaty temple, dirty praise in the curl of his ear.  Cas has his free arm around the kid’s waist, practically holding him upright as his little hips grind.  Two things Cas has realized: no hymen, and no G-spot.  The cosmetic lower provides perfect outer genitalia, up to and including a slick, empty vaginal canal.  Everything else, though, is in Dean’s mind.  The kid is clearly aroused by being filled like this, even without the physiological pleasure; no wonder he’d been discontented before.

The hand on Cas’s shoulder pulls into a fist.  “Getting close?” Cas asks, and Dean whines.  Cas looks down, past where Dean’s fingers have rucked up his shirt, to his own big hand pumping between slick thighs.  Then he puts his thumb squarely on Dean’s clit, and rolls it until Dean’s orgasm makes his legs give out.    

Cas had brought new sheets for the flimsy little bed in the loft, but doesn’t think they’ll make it that far.  He holds the trembling boy against him with one arm and struggles out of his uniform labcoat with the other.  He flings it on the floor, lowers Dean onto it, drags the kid’s abandoned coat under his hips.  He doesn’t bother with laces—just tugs the boy’s boot off so he can remove the tangled jeans. 

Cas sits back on his heels for a moment, just enjoying the view. Dean looks back at him, flushed and sleepy-looking.  The cosmetic has made the boy’s hips are a little wider: if he ever takes the tablet for a full internal change, he’ll be positively bowlegged, but now his new waist just makes him look endearingly small.  Cas leans forward and gently undoes the buttons on Dean’s shirt, baring his smooth, flat chest with its small, male nipples.  Not a wrinkle or a surgical scar: you’d never know the boy had tits less than a week ago.  Except that when Cas traces one of those nipples, it goes instantly hard and Dean makes a needy, wordless sound.

“Still sensitive?” Cas asks.

“I miss them,” Dean replies, simply.  And when Cas pinches him, his bare legs part automatically.  Cas lets his hand follow the curve of Dean’s new pelvis, settles each of his palms on one hot thigh, opens him all the way. Dean’s pussylips pout open, a deep pink from the friction, but his hole has closed.  He looks wet and delicious. Sprawled out on the floor of the storeroom, Cas lowers his head and tastes.

Dean whimpers and squirms, startled, but Cas holds him still.  It’s been nearly two years since he was with a woman, and this is what he’s missed most.  The taste, the wetness, the twitch of over-sensitive flesh, that flesh giving way to his tongue and his teeth, the intimate thrill of penetration.  For some reason, Cas has never found going down on men to be quite so viscerally intense.   He’d accepted that this was a pleasure he would have to give up, a fair trade when he considers kind of emotional affection he gets from sleeping with men.  Cas appreciates women, is sometimes aroused by them, he never feels the right sort of emotional connection with them.  But maybe, he thinks, devouring Dean’s pussy while stroking his flat chest, feeling the boy’s hands tug at his hair, I can have both.

Cas makes the boy climax twice with his tongue, then fills him with two fingers and brings him off again, licking his clit until he wails.  With a cock, the boy has the short refractory period you’d expect from a horny teenager, but with a cunt, he’s multi-orgasmic. Then Cas can wait no longer: he scrambles to his knees, fumbling his cock out.

“Yes, yes, please,” Dean moans, flinging one leg around Cas’s waist.  “In me.”

But Cas is too fired up, too eager:  if he has Dean now, he’ll fuck the kid into next week.  It’ll be too much: Dean’s not a virgin, but it’s still his first time.  Instead Cas jacks himself rough and hard with his right hand, wedging three clumsy fingers into Dean’s cunt so the kid’s hips are moving in time with his own.  Dean’s own hands are twisting his nipples— _I miss them_ , he’d said about his tits, and Cas suddenly misses them, too.  He spills in thick jets on Dean’s belly, sending the boy over the edge again.  Cas can feel the pussy clamp down on his fingers, strong as ever.  Fuck, he wants to feel that pressure on his cock.  But there’s plenty of time. 

“Tell your father you’re staying with friends this weekend,” Cas collapses next to Dean, spent. “Let him look after Sam for a few days.”

Dean peeks out of one eye, managing to look skeptical and sated at the same time. “Sammy could starve in a few days, the way my dad cooks.” He settles against Cas’s shoulder.  “Besides, I don’t have any friends here.”  He says it so matter-of-factly that Cas’s heart clenches. _You have me_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t: they both know this thing between them isn’t done out of friendship.

“Does your Dad know that?”  Cas asks.  Dean is silent.  “C’mon,” Cas nuzzles his hair.  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I won’t even have…”  Dean’s head tips back, allowing kisses down his throat, across his chest.  “I mean. This’ll all be gone by the weekend.” His breath gusts out of him when Cas tongue-traces his nipples, so loud he barely hears Cas’s next words: “Only if you want it to go.”

 


	4. White Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas go all the way (have you read the SUMMARY & TAGS? now would be a good time!)

Turns out, Dean knows _exactly_ what he wants, and he's not shy about sharing that knowledge—at least, not with Castiel.  It’s 4:30 on a painfully slow Thursday at the pharmacy when Dean collects Sammy from the bus and sends him home to the trailer.  Then, casual as anything, he comes into the pharmacy, walks right around the counter where Castiel is checking the online inventory, and drops to his knees.

“Told my Dad I was staying with Tim,” Dean says, and his hands are already working at Cas’s belt.

“Do you even know anyone na—ooooh, _fuck_!” Cas still isn’t quite sure how far Dean had gone with guys from the Roadhouse, but it has definitely involved sucking a lot of dick because the boy is an _artist_.

Dean glances up at him, peeking temptingly through his lashes, and then shakes his head slightly, teasing Cas’s cockhead with his tongue.  And it’s sad—pathetic—that Cas knows more about Dean’s social circle than his father, just from a few lazy post-coital chats, but before Cas can contemplate this, Dean swallows him deeper and the thought is lost.

Dean is concealed from any unlikely customers by the tall, old-fashioned counter, but they’d been interrupted once.  Cas had been on his stool, probably with his tablet open to the online inventory, khakis open and cock halfway down Dean’s throat when they’d heard the chime of the bells tied to the door.  Cas had barely enough time to drag his gaze up from the lovely view of Dean’s lips stretched around his dick before Ellen Harvelle had descended.  She’d had some complaint about the county council, something about fixing potholes—would he sign a petition?  Call his councilman? Local businessowners uniting…  And Cas had agreed, despite the fact that he’s told her a dozen times that he isn’t a business-owner.  He would have agreed to _anything_ , knowing that if Ellen had simply moved the cardboard Chapstick display and leaned over the counter, she would have seen Dean Jailbait Winchester on his knees, not at all concealed by a flap of Ca’s white labcoat.  Cas had been able to feel the boy trying not to laugh, though he’d stayed quite until Ellen had left, as quickly as she’d arrived.  As soon as the door had chimed, Dean had spat out Cas’s wilting cock and laughed until he’d choked. 

“Jesus, I could _taste_ you getting softer....” Dean had finally managed, breathless. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call her back?  You could explain again how you don’t actually own the pharmacy…”

Cas hated to be laughed at, but he the teasing couldn’t upset him, not with Dean slumped against the counter, his lips swollen and gleaming, looking relaxed and happy for once.  He has that image in his mind’s eye as he cups Dean’s shorn head in his palm.  He pushes himself fast and deep enough to make the kid gag.  The memory of that near escape thrills Cas, but it’s not enough: he needs Dean’s throat clenches that brings him off.

“So, Friday,”  says Dean.  He’d jerked himself off,  still on his knees and mostly dressed, muffling himself against Cas’s khaki thigh at the last minute,  because he knows Cas loves to watch him come.  Then he tucked himself away and dusted himself off, like the pharmacy floor was the only dirty thing he had to worry about.  Now he stands on the opposite side of the counter, just like any other customer.  But his voice is rough and in the pocket of his flannel shirt, he has the white tablet—a lower complete—that is going to bring about the most significant gynogenetic change they’ve ever tried.  It will make him female from the waist down, inside and out.

“Motorways Lodge,”  Cas confirms, naming an anonymous rundown motel  off the highway where no one will notice enough to even ask questions.  “I’ll be in 17.”  It’s the room at the far end of the least popular wing of the motel block, out of favor—and therefore private—because it’s so far away from the motel office with its vending machines. “Do you…need a ride?”  The thought hadn’t occurred to him until just now.  It could be dangerous to be seen arriving with Dean, and it’s not really like a date or anything…

Dean smirks, like he knows what Cas is thinking.  “Nah…I’ll figure it out.”  He pats his pocket, automatically checking the contents. “But there is one thing you could help me with.”

“Yeah?”

Dean glances quickly to the front of the store, making sure there’s no one watching in the darkening evening, and then leans in to whisper salaciously  in Cas’s ear: “I really do miss having tits.”

***

Cas has late nights for the rest of the week—reading up on his organic chemistry, playing around with various compounds—and so he’s actually dosing when the knock on the door wakes.  It takes him a second to orient himself: room 17, Motorways Lodge.  And standing outside his door is Dean Winchester, looking like rough trade in jeans and flannel.

“Come on in,” Cas opens the door. “It’s not the Ritz, but there’s, uh, beer in the fridge. And water…” He quickly runs out of things to say. The room is meticulously clean, but that’s all there is to recommend it.  Well, that and the big, overstuffed bed. 

“Well, I’m, uh, on some medication, so I probably shouldn’t drink,”  Dean sits himself down on the edge of the mattress, toes off his boots, then looks up at Cas.  And,” he reaches back, pulls his shirt over his head, “I’ve had a pussy for two _days_ and I really want you in it.”

Cas laughs at Dean’s teenage impatience—Dean makes two days sound like a lifetime, but maybe it really feels that way because Dean is tugging at his shoelaces, shimmying out of his jeans. Clearly the boy had barely waited to get home Thursday before he’d swallowed the complete lower.

The boy strips down in seconds and then seems to suddenly lose steam.  Surrounded by hastily shed clothing, He blinks up at Cas. and it’s like he’s forgotten what to do next, like he's seeing the pharmacist for this first time.  “Hey.”

“Hey,” Cas echoes.  Nude, Dean is breathtaking: his hip are wider, but his washboard stomach and long muscled thighs still look somehow masculine, but with an undeniable, bare cleft instead of his usual little cock.  Cas was right about the complete lower treatment giving him bowlegs.

“I don’t. “  Dean stutters. “I mean, I’ve never…Not with, uh…”

Cas eases himself down onto the bed, all thoughts of beer forgotten.  “A cunt?” He regrets the rough word as soon as it’s out of his mouth.  Gotta ease a kid into these things.

Dean flinches.  Nods.

Cas should offer him an out— _“if you’re not sure…” “we can wait…”_ that sort of thing.  But if he does, Dean will take it, and then be back begging next week because he might deny it, but he wants what he wants.

“It’ll be just like Tuesday, in the storeroom,”  Cas assures him.  “You liked that, right?”

Another nod, surer this time.  Cas puts his hand on Dean’s bare thigh, stroking. “I liked it, too.  Gonna start with my mouth—can’t wait to taste you. “

Dean smiles shyly. He sits primly, legs together, hands propping himself up in the soft old mattress.

Cas kisses him. “You’ll be even wetter this time, and that’s ok.  The complete changed you inside, all the way up…” Cas kisses again, finger-walks up Dean’s belly, puts a fingertip in the kid’s navel.  “So everything will be a little bit…more.”

“Uhunh,” Dean is panting now, tipping his head up for another kiss. 

“Go on,” Cas urges, “whenever you’re ready…just open for me.”

When Dean finally lets his legs drop open with a sigh of surrender, Cas mouths his way down the boy’s torso with immoderate haste, barely greeting his hard little nipples.  He does pause for a moment, hands around Dean’s narrow waist, to study the pink ruffles of his cunt, glistening and real, perfect in every detail.  Then he dives in.

Dean tastes different, spicier, sour.  His juices are thicker on Cas’s tongue.  Cas lets Dean grind out his first orgasm before he pillows his head on the boy’s thigh and traces his vulva with a finger.  Maybe it’s just his imagination—after all, he knows that Dean’s taken the complete lower this time (no double-blind studies when your pharmacist is also your lover).  So maybe it’s just because he expects to feel a difference, but he’d swear that Dean feels hotter this time, that it takes a little longer to work two fingers inside. 

“Yeeeah,” Dean whines, “C’m _on_ …”  He’s gorgeous, sprawled out on the big motel bed with Cas between his legs.  He’s dug his heels into the mattress, hips moving in tight, greedy circles, trying to get Cas’s fingers just where he wants them.  And Cas is reminded that, cunt or not, Dean’s all boy. The difference is more than just the youthful power Cas can feel in those muscled man-thighs.  Where a girl might be shy, timid, socialized to worry about pregnancy and reputation, but Dean is as bold and oversexed as any teenage male.  Sex is his due, something to be demanded and indulged in and enjoyed like there are never consequences. _Cocky_ is the only word for it.  And Dean’s mindless demand for pleasure lights a fire in Cas.  For all his flirting, all the blow-jobs behind counters and unsubtle hints about Roadhouse patrons and high-school cheerleaders, Dean is still very innocent. Oh, the boy has no idea what this new body is capable of!  Forgetting all of his good intentions about going slowly, Cas plants a hand on the boy’s belly, curves the fingers in his cunt, and introduced the kid to his G-spot.

With some innate instinct for secrecy, Dean flails his head into a pillow when he comes, even as the rest of his body is spasming and shaking uncontrollably.  He’s still got the powerful back and legs of a boy growing into manhood and his thrashing nearly enough to knock Cas off the bed.  It’s a solid thirty seconds before the kid is reduced to the occasional twitch.  He’s got tears in his eyes when Cas eases the pillow away.  He has to tug to get Dean to release the corner that he’s bitten because the boy is so pleasure-dazed. 

Dean blinks, bewildered, hen licks his lips.  It seems to take him a moment to recall the word, and it’s nearly a whisper when he finally manages: “Now. Please?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.  Cas is already stripping out of his clothing and fumbling with a condom.  The older man pauses for a moment of thanks as he stretches out alongside Dean’s overheated body.  He’s had some women who couldn’t bear to be touched after an orgasm like the one he’s just wrung out of Dean, but the kid seems only more relaxed.  He smiles lazily up at Cas, twines his arms around Cas’s neck, then lets his eyelids drop closed. His brow furrows when he feels Cas’s cockhead push against him, but he doesn’t even open his eyes when Cas finally enters him—a quick, hitching breath suddenly released (“ugh! ohhh…”) and Cas is _inside_ his beautiful boy’s beautiful cunt. A phrase he never imagined and a feeling he’ll never forget.

Cas has remembered proper lube this time (he’ll chalk the baby oil up to temporary insanity brought on by lust), but Dean is naturally wet, his thighs and belly gleaming so much that Cas wonders he’d squirted.  Are the drugs _that_ good? He’s still young, though, and tight enough that Cas moves by inches. Each thrust is met by a corresponding pulse as Dean opens s little more, a little more.

“Shh, shh…just let me—Jesus, you’re tight!”

Dean grunts, drags Cas down for a kiss, whimpers as the man sucks a bruise into his throat. 

They are both panting by the time Cas bottoms out, a last thrust that makes Dean squeak as….oh, sweet fuck, Cas goes lightheaded for a moment, realizing the implications of complete lower gynogenetic treatment: he’s just touched the kid’s cervix.

“Breathe, breathe. Ohh, oh—goddamn, you feel so good,” Cas can barely string words together, knows he must sound like the world's worst porn. But he also knows what he wants, knows he needs to see Dean pleasuring himself more than he needs another breath.  Plus, those long teen limbs suddenly feel precariously fragile underneath him. “Can I…will you, uhm.  On top?”

Dean nods, squirms, and somehow with the athleticism of youth, ends up rolling on top of Cas without ever letting his cock slip entirely out.  He eases back down slowly, settling astride Cas’s waist, taking him to the balls with a low moan.  He hesitates, sucking on his own lower lip, then begins rolling his hips clumsily.  The visual alone is enough to make Cas’s balls pulse, but there’s something awkward where Dean is usually so graceful.  Still, it’s so good—hot, wet, tight as any girl—that it takes Cas a moment to realize: the boy is still moving like he’s got a cock, like he’s fucking instead of being fucked. Cas feels a sudden, unexpected wave of affection: of course, the kid doesn’t know any better.

“Lemme,” Cas settles his hands on Dean’s hips. “I gotcha..”  He pushes deep—that surprised squeak again—then pulls Dean forward, rocks him back.  In a minute, the boy has picked up the rhythm himself.  In three minutes, he’s fucking himself breathless on Cas’s cock, as naturally as though he’d never had one of his own.

“Gonna cum,” Cas gasps, because Dean is riding him like a jockey, plucking his own male nipples and grinding deep enough to squeak-moan on every breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” breathes Dean, “I know, c’n feel ya.” And, of course, Dean knows from first hand experience how a cock swells just before it bursts, but now he’s feeling it in a totally new way.  The look of wide-eyed surprise, the way Dean’s hand drops from his chest to his belly, like he can feel Cas’s first spurt—Cas hurtles into orgasm.

 ***

“Made you som’in,” Cas slurs at last, cuddling Dean against him.

“Mmm?...no, no, don’t…”  whines Dean as Cas slips out of him.

The older man is back in a moment, hushing and soothing, settling Dean’s back against his chest.  “Not going anywhere, sweetheart.  Got all weekend, darling.  You’ll get sore,” Cas warns, but he pushes his leg between Dean’s, feels the hot wet bloom of used pussy as the boy straddles his thigh.

Then he drops his gift onto the pillow in front of Dean’s face. A pill bottle.

“Pink is upper cosmetic, blue is lower cosmetic, orange is lower complete,” Dean recites dutifully.  “What’s in this one?”

“I made it just for you,”  Cas runs his hands over Dean’s stomach, up to his chest.  He can’t get enough of the kid’s smooth, hot skin.  “We’ve understood the hormones for year—how to give men breasts, how to give women beards.  It was the timing piece that was so difficult: how to turn it on and off when we wanted to.  That’s what won those Danes the Nobel.”

“Mmm?” Dean’s calmed under Cas’s slow-moving hands. 

“A yellow would make you totally female.”  Cas waits, waits, and finally feels Dean shake his head.  No.

“No?” Another headshake, decisive. “That’s the one you tried to steal, that first day," Cas reminds Dean. "A yellow comprehensive.”

Dean turns his head, kisses the first part of Cas that he can reach—a bicep.  “I didn’t know what I was doing.  I just wanted something…different.  Wanted to be something different.”

Cas nuzzles the boy’s hair.  “And you don’t feel like that anymore?”

Dean shrugs. “I like myself more, now….’  Dean’s mouth opens, closes, opens.  Cas can practically hear him working up to what he wants to say. “I like myself now.   With a…with my,” his legs tighten involuntarily around Cas’s thigh.  “With a pussy.  And boobs.  I liked the boobs.”

Cas pinches one of Dean’s nipples, feels the boy squirm.  “I can tell.”  And then, quietly, “I’ve always liked you.”

Dean burrows his head into the pillow, Cas's words more embarrassing than anything they've done together. And then...“But I like being a boy, too.  Like my cock,”  Dean bucks his hips backwards, against Cas’s slowly swelling dick.  “I wouldn’t have a cock if I took the yellow, right?”

“Right.”  Cas isn’t going to lie to the kid.  He needs to know what he’s choosing. 

“So.”  Dean shifts his head, turns to he can look Cas in the face. “What’s in the bottle?”

Cas has to kiss him, loves how single-minded this kid can be.  “I took the gynogenetic components from two pink tablets and added them to the admixture of a third.  Then I titrated out half of the temporal fixative.”  He waits to see if the boy can work out what he’s saying.

“I’d have…not four days—two.  Two days of…” Dean considers.  “Boobs? _Big_ boobs?”

Cas kisses him again, reward for a correct answer.  “It would be a little like taking a yellow: you’d still have your pussy and all the internal changes, plus you’d have tits” (he thinks he loves Dean, but he won’t call them boobs). “But it would all be gone by Monday morning. Call it a trial run.”

“And you made it just for me?”

“I did.” A small percentage of the people who are legitimately prescribed gynogenetic therapy discover that it does solve their gender dysphoria by finally giving them the physical body to match the image they have of themselves.  An even smaller percentage can afford a bespoke therapy regime to give them a body not found in nature: a woman’s breasts with a man’s cock, for example, or a cock on the outside and ovaries on the inside.  They get what Cas had once told Dean was impossible: the opportunity to try on different sexualities until they find one that suits.  Once you’ve had enough experience with gynogenetics—and Cas has now seen how such drugs work, inside and out—the pharmacology isn’t that difficult.

Dean pops the pill into his mouth without a moment’s pause.  Cas hears it click against a tooth, and then the boy swallows it and kisses him.


	5. Special Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut! Includes some consensual somnophilia in this chapter, so consider yourselves warned! After this, an epilogue and we'll be all done with this particular filth:)

Cas wakes suddenly at two AM Saturday morning, his sleep cycle wrecked by a week of late nights spent formulating Dean’s latest medication.  It takes him a few seconds to realize that he isn’t dreaming. He vaguely remembers a second round of enthusiastic sex, after which he must have fallen asleep curled around Dean.  Cold and sticky, he tugs a blanket over them both.   Gynogenetics work best during sleep cycles, and Dean’s latest tablet has plunged him so far into dreamland that he doesn’t even stir.  Already, in the sodium light filtering in from the motel parking lot, Cas can see the boy’s chest has developed into two pretty handfuls.

***

Cas’s suckles Dean awake late the next morning, alternating nipples until Dean begins to surface from his drugged sleep.  Cas can feel the boy’s breathing change as he wakes, feel the kid’s fingers in his hair, then along his jaw, then finally tracing his new chest.   The first tablet Dean had conned out of Cas had given him the small, firm titties of a developing teenager.  This new medicine has given him soft, heavy mounds suitable for a grown, well-endowed woman, complete with big dark aureoles.  Dean is entranced.  Still half-asleep, he rolls onto his back and pulls the man’s dark head down to suck him again.

 “…dreams I had, Cas, sweart’god,” he moans a moment later, “Gonna cuuum, jus’ from this.  Fuck, if you touch me, I’ll come. ”

Cas does.

And Dean does, too, bucking and twisting in Cas’s arms and then sagging back against him.

“I _so_ want you to fuck me,” Dean says, drunkenly, when he can speak again.  “But I really need a shower.”  The juxtaposition makes Cas smile: kid’s got no filter, just says whatever pops into his mind, and Cas loves that lack of self-consciousness. Never mind that Dean doesn’t seem awake enough for either a shower or another round: with the gynogenetic dosage tripled, his body is simply craving sleep.  Cas is craving something else.  He’d woken up rock-hard and now he bucks against Dean’s ass, aroused by the knowledge that the C-cup breasts he’s cupping aren’t even finished their growth cycle. Dean huffs a laugh at Cas’s eagerness and twists one leg back over Cas’s thigh. He’s so young and supple that the position opens him right up;  Cas’s right hand slips from breast to belly, and then lower.  He can’t see over Dean’s new tits, but he can imagine: his thick fingers parting Dean’s bare cuntlips, holding Dean open for the big purple head cockhead nudging between his thighs.

Dean merely sighs, nearly asleep again, when Cas enters him. 

“Dean?”

“Mmnn?”  Dean turns his head for a lazy kiss.  “S’ok,  Keep go’n,” he mutters, his eyes already drifting  closed, drowsy from his orgasm and the white pill.

Cas kisses his shoulder, lets his fingers brush down to the pulse at the crook of Dean’s arm, slowing and steady.  His thumb finds the ridged scars on Dean’s forearm.  He’s never asked, but he hasn’t forgotten.

“Hun’in,”  Dean mumbles.

Cas nuzzles behind his ear.  “What?”

“Know what you’re thinkin’,” Dean cracks one green eye, his words already thickening with exhaustion.  “But was a accident.  Hunting.  W’my Dad.”

Cas feels gratitude bloom in his chest. An accident.  He can’t imagine what kind of animal would have left those scars, but any beast is preferable to what Cas had been imagining: that Dean, infuriated with the body he’d been born in, had tried to escape it.   “I’m so…”  he can’t decide how to finish that sentence—glad? relieved? But it doesn’t matter: Dean has already slipped into his drugged sleep.

Dean’s lax body is hot and limp and receptive; it takes Cas easily.  Cas, in turn, indulges his relief by sheathing himself to the balls in two slick thrusts, faster and deeper than he had dared when Dean was awake.  Spooned around Dean’s smaller form, Cas holds himself in the boy, rocking him gently asleep, learning this newly enhanced body.  The changes seem somehow less startling since Dean was already at that hybrid, gangling stage of puberty:  so the hipbone under his hand curves a little wider, so the shoulders above those swelling tits are broader?  Who cares, really?  It’s all still Dean, and Cas can’t seem to get enough. 

Cas lets his hand move from Dean’s hip to his stomach, up to the valley between Dean’s enormous new breasts, rising and falling with each sleeping breath.  Even asleep, the kid clenches tighter when Cas plays with his nipples—male, female, Dean is always _so fucking responsive_. Cas just wants to devour him, to know every inch and incarnation intimately.   But at the same time, it is a gentle hunger.  An inch out, two inches in, slow and warm. He palms the boy’s belly, still male and muscled;  he imagines he can feel his own dick filling the kid, stretching him from the inside.  He watches the sleeping face: calm and lovely, a faint crinkle appearing between the eyebrows when Cas pushes all the way in, then easing when Cas withdraws.

The first time Cas had Dean’s body—back when Cas had still half-expected to be arrested for suborning a minor, back when the most significant change either of them could imagine was giving Dean a temporary set of cute little B-cups—Cas had mentioned breastmilk.  He’ll never know what made him say it; he’d been out of his head: post-orgasmic; a gorgeous, willing partner in his lap; every erogenous zone at his disposal…  But now, admiring the way Dean’s heavy breasts shift with his slightest thrust, he remembers how aroused the boy had been by the idea. Had Dean just been excited by the possibility? Could that something Dean would ever…want?

Cas suddenly needs to see all of Dean spread out beneath him.  He gently eases Dean onto his back.  The boy whines when Cas leaves him and hums contentedly, still deeply asleep, when Cas pushes back in.  Again, that erotic little pout when Cas bottoms out, like Dean’s not quite sure what to make of the new sensation. Dean looks smaller, fragile, on the big motel bed when Cas is used to seeing him in the twin.  His new tits, soft and full, seem out of proportion on his narrow chest.   Ca ducks down to lip the thick nipples, feels Dean’s breathing speed up.  Fuck—Dean’s always been so sensitive, even without the pills.  If he actually had milk to give, he’d go crazy.  

 It can be done, as Cas knows from the extensive gynogenetic research he’d been doing.  But it would mean a deeper, more permanent physiological change than any they’ve tried.  Does Dean want…? Would Dean let him… ? Cas buries his face in titflesh.  It’s only when he feels Dean’s legs lock around his waist that he realizes his hips are moving in time with his suckling, fucking  firm and rhythmic. He looks up, sees Dean’s face—lips bitten around moans, eyes still closed, but moving beneath his lids like he’s experiencing the most intense erotic dream.  Cas is close, so close.  He sits back on his heels so he can drive into each thrust, making Dean’s tits bounce buoyantly. They’ve reached full size as he’d slept, as big and pillowy as you’d expect from a triple gynogenetic dose. 

Two of these deep thrusts and Dean’s eyes flicker open, pupils blown wide. But he’s not fully awake.  Cas knows because the first thing Dean does is reach for his own cock, an automatic response to pleasure.  He looks so sweetly confused to encounter Cas instead that Cas can’t help but laugh, harsh and breathless.  

 “C’mon,” Cas grabs Dean’s hand, pulls it down to where they are joined, “Touch yourself.  Lemme show you how.”

It takes effort for Cas to slow himself, but it’s worth it to lguide Dean’s fingers along his new, stretched pussy.  When he brushes Dean’s fingers along his exposed clit, Dean’s channel tightens exponentially. Cas doesn’t mean to go deeper, but it’s like Dean just pulls him in, like he’s got no control of his own body.

“Fuuck,” Dean whines. “Big.” But he shoves himself against Cas, writhing and gasping, panting through the pressure.  His fingers working his clit, breasts bouncing like a slut’s.

Cas comes when Dean does, explosively.  He knows it’s going to happen: Dean’s hips twist sharply, bucking up eagerly, just like they always do before he climaxes.  This time, the hips are wider, the hot pulsing channel of his cunt is nothing like his ass, but Cas knows the signs and he doesn’t even try to hold out.

They doze afterwards.  Cas remembers that he never actually told Dean about the easiest way to get milk, but talking seems like too much effort just now.  _Moving_ seems like too much effort: he is too delightfully drained to even roll off his small partner, but Dean seems to enjoy the weight.  His fingers trace soothing patterns along Cas’s back. 

“Oohh,” Dean whispers when Cas finally softens enough to slip out.  He sounds regretful.

“Sore?” Cas asks, because he’s a scientist and curious and, besides, now that his lust is somewhat sated, he worries that he may have been too rough.

“Not much.” Dean ducks his head, pressing his blushing face into the crook of Cas’s shoulder.  “Besides…I, uh.  I liked it.”

Cas ruffles his hair affectionately.  “Good. M’too.”

It’s nearly an hour—cuddling, kissing—before they peel themselves apart.  Dean moves languorously—like he’s run a long race, like he’s aware of new muscles—but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain.  Cas can’t help but think: thanks to the gynogenetics, the kid was literally _made_ for just this kind of fucking.

Cas finally pulls on his trousers and puts in a call to the local pizza place.  He orders two medium pies because they’ve burnt a lot of calories and, pussy or not, he figures Dean still eats like a teenaged boy.   The pizza parlor promises delivery in thirty minutes or less, and Cas spends the time indolently exploring Dean’s latest body.  Cas is at that agreeably sensitive stage where he can’t quite harden, but he’s still buzzing with satiation when they are interrupted by the knock on the door.  He is waiting for his receipt when he realizes that, after all this time trying to hide his relationship with Dean, he can barely resist the urge to fling the motel door wide and show off the heavy-breasted boy lounging in his bed.

He doesn’t, of course:  it’s not his secret to share.  But standing in a run-down motel room with a box of pizza in his hands, Cas knows there has been a fundamental shift: their _thing—_ this casual fuckery that started with curiosity and lust and the thrill of the illicit—has suddenly and completely changed.  He wants to both feed Dean and flaunt him, and it is more than pizza and the pizza delivery guy.  Cas is protective and proud, proud of that gorgeous hybrid body and the singlemindedness with which Dean pursued it, refusing to accept the small-town dictum that he simply had to settle for what he was given.

“Don’t just stand there—pizza’ll get cold,” Dean says, oblivious.  And then, “Hey, can we get pie for dessert?”

After they eat, they squeeze into the tiny cubicle of a shower.  Cas has never wished for a bathtub so much in his life, but he makes do with a leisurely soaping of Dean’s breasts.  He’d been pretty sure he wouldn’t get hard again, not so soon after their morning playtime, but then Dean kneels and takes him in, watching Cas and letting the water bead onto his lashes until he looks like he’s crying. 

Still wet, Dean braces himself against the sink, wants Cas to take him from behind so he can see his tits in the little square medicine-cabinet mirror that is the only reflective surface in the room.  Cas is only too happy to oblige, thrusting Dean up onto his tip-toes while the mirror frames his swaying breasts and ecstasy and delight chase across his face. 

The motel vending machine provides those Tasty-Kake fruit tarts, the closest Cas can get to pie. He feeds Dean bites when they’re back in bed, paints his belly and his nipples with the sugared filling, sucks him clean.

“Stop, stop, ‘nuff,” Dean gasps at last.  He squirms up against the pillows, half sitting, and looks down at Cas. He wipes a bit of cherry filling off his lover’s cheek, licks his fingers. “Fuck, I wanna do this f’rever.”

Cas presses a sticky kiss to his thigh. “Sounds good to me.  I’ll get some pizza delivered to Sam and you can stay longer.”

He’s teasing, but he stops when he sees the shadow cross Dean’s face.  “Hey…I didn’t mean…Look, I’m sure he’s fine.  Your Dad can manage a few days, right?  And Sam’s not a baby.”

“Dad and Sam get along fine,”  Dean says.  “When I’m not around.  It’s good for them, to have me gone.”

Cas sits up.  “Now, I know that’s not true!”

“It is!”  Dean insists.  “It’s just…you know, Dad doesn’t make an effort with Sammy, not when he’s got me around.  And I’m always around.  But if I—you know, if I wasn’t there, he’d have to.  They’d talk and stuff.  And Dad would have to see how smart Sammy is.  And Sam would have Dad’s attention, all of it.”

Cas swallows down his protests.  He doesn’t know Dean’s family , and he can’t say Dean is wrong.  After all, Dean’s perspicacious. He pays attention, learns things about people, far more than the average teenager.  Cas imagines he’s spent years watching and trying to figure out why other people seem so much more comfortable in their own skins.  Cas remembers trying to talk him out of the gynogenetic treatment: he’d been wrong about that.  Dean knows what body is best for him; maybe he knows what family is best for him, too.

Cas stretches out on the bed, lets Dean come to him, curl up back to belly.  It’s getting dark outside—nighttime, they’ve barely gotten out of bed all day, and Dean is right: Cas could do this forever.  Getting cool, too, cool enough to make Dean’s nipples pop, the size and color of ripe raspberries.  They’ll be gone soon, withering as Dean sleeps. He’ll wake to his old, ill-fitting body, and Cas will wake to his old, ill-fitting life.  Unless…

“Where would you go?”  Cas asks, lips moving against Dean’s shoulderblade.  Dean’s too young, but in a few years…“College?” 

Dean snorts, which makes Cas smile. 

“No, seriously.  Tell me,”  Cas continues.  “Where would you go?  Who would you be?”


	6. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end!

Cas is thinking of that motel room as he digs around in his briefcase for his house keys.  He manages to unlock the house while balancing the mail—two chemistry journals and a catalogue—on top of the bakery box, but promptly drops his briefcase, barely missing his own foot.

“Honey,” he calls, “I’m home!”

“Out back,” he hears Dean call over the scuffle of paws as the mutts race to greet him. 

The mutts:  that’s what Dean always calls them, their two rescued mixed-breeds, as though he didn’t spoil them rotten, as though they hadn’t been his idea.  (“Sammy always wanted a pet dog,” Dean had said, casually, when he’d broached the idea.  That had been three months ago, just after Dean had first written to his brother— “ _Can’t tell you where I am just yet, but I am safe and happy. Maybe someday you can come to visit…”_ The postcard had a picture of the Chicago Sears Tower on the front; Cas had mailed it from a sky-scraping hotel while at an out-of-state conference in a large, East Coast city, as far as imaginable from their bungalow in the high desert).

Cas manages to keep the two inquisitive snouts out of the bakery box long enough to secure the pie in the fridge.  Last week, he’d asked Dean how they should celebrate their anniversary and Dean had rolled his eyes, too young to care much about these milestones.  Couldn’t go wrong with pie, though. 

They each accord a different significance to their anniversary—only Cas is old enough to know how rare their happiness is—but at least they’d agreed on the date: their night  in the rundown motel outside a town outside Lawrence, Kansas; the night Dean had given Cas his last virginity will always be the anniversary they celebrate.  That night was more meaningful than their departure from Kansas: one February morning, Dean had left his family’s trailer as though he were going to catch the high school bus in front of the pharmacy, but had taken a long-haul Greyhound instead.  Cas, even more anti-climactically, had simply given notice in Lawrence, broken his lease, and driven away from his old life. That night was more meaningful than the hasty and unromantic legalese of their courthouse marriage, which they had spent holding their breaths, fearing that the fake IDs adding 3 years to Dean’s age might not hold up to scrutiny.  That night was the night Cas had made good on his promise— _we can talk about what you want;_ it was the night they had dreamed up the life they now shared.

Cas strips off his work clothes as he goes (he knows what ‘out back’ means) and he’s nude by the time he passes through the sliding doors that lead out to the deck.  In addition to the welcome anonymity, working in a lab as a research chemist pays significantly more than working behind a sales counter as a pharmacist. Cas has lavished the earnings on Dean.  No more motel showers—their new house has two bathtubs and the piece de resistance is the hot-tub, big enough for two.

Big enough for _three_ , Cas corrects, as he slips into the water and reaches out to touch his lover’s stretched and swollen stomach.

Dean paddles over for a kiss. “Blueberry?” 

“Blueberry,” Cas confirms, because you can take the boy out of the Midwest, but you can’t make him like trendy California flavors.  (“Gluten-free dulce-de-leche  sea-salt with crumbled prosciutto? ” Dean had read off a menu once, his tone conveying utter confusion “Are any of those things dessert?”)

The hot-tub has a bench-like shelf running along the inside and as soon as Cas sits, Dean straddles one thigh and reaches for his cock, lithe as a eel despite his big belly.  His pelvis is trim, but he’s bowlegged, as Cas always suspected he would be. Cas lets the stress of the day melt as Dean jacks him, firm but slow. The water laps against Dean’s round belly like an island in the sea until Cas simply _must_ runs his hand over the taut surface. 

Cas feels his cock thickening at the idea that he had _made_ this belly.  Made it in every sense of the word: he’d compounded the internal lower tablet that had given Dean a womb, and then he’d fucked the boy full and tight until that womb began to swell.

“Want you in my ass,” Dean says, when Cas’s cock is jutting hard and purple.  “Been awhile since we did that.”

True. Cas still loves to watch Dean ride him, especially since the kid had started to grow round with their own kid. But they take turns and Cas certainly isn’t going to say no, not when Dean’s hole opens to him so prettily, not when Dean moans, “Ohhh—oh, _fuck_ , so big, Cassie! Jesus!” on the first few inches.  Now that Dean isn’t sharing a tiny trailer with his father and his baby brother, he’s gotten much more vocal during sex. Just one more of the things that convinces Cas they’ve done the right thing.

It _has_ been awhile, so while the boy acclimates to the stretch, Cas fondles his enticing little tits.

When it had come time to choose his permanent body, Dean had wanted the womb, pussy and all, but not the huge rack he’d tried in that Kansas motel. “Bigger is fun for awhile,” he’d said, nonchalant as if he’d been discussing an article of clothing, “but the backache?  No, thanks!”  

Having tried a full range, thanks to Cas’s pharmaceutical experimentation, Dean finally opted for cute and proportional, almost the same size as he'd gotten from that first pill.

Cas would be lying to say he wasn’t just a _bit_ disappointed; he’s always been a breast-man.  But it wasn’t his body.  And there were advantages.  Tender and sensitive, Dean’s tits disappeared beneath a large t-shirt, like a delicious secret that only he and Cas shared. And, small or not, Dean’s thick nipples liked to make their presence known any time the temperature dropped below 65 degrees. Besides, Dean wasn’t above taking a temporary gynogenetic tablet to spice things up.  (He’d been a double-D the night he’d conceived; Cas _distinctly_ recalls grunting his release into a broad pillowy breast as he’d planted a baby deep in Dean’s new body.)   Plus, he’d grown more than a full cup-size since he’d fallen pregnant.  Cas anticipates colostrum any day now. He’d never gotten a chance to tell Dean, but the easiest way to induce lactation in a gynogene was by getting them pregnant.

When Dean’s hips start to move in time with Cas’s hands squeezing his breasts, the older man knows he’s safe to thrust.  And he does; his own pelvis rocks up, pushing Dean til his belly breaks the surface of the water. And below it, bobbing sweetly:  the uncut helmet of Dean’s little prick.

Cas guides one of Dean’s hands down to it, smiling as Dean starts his quick familiar pumping.  He hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder, peeking over the curve of Dean’s thickened abdomen.  Cas loves to watch Dean jerk himself, and not just because it sets off fireworks in the anal rings hugging Cas’s own cock.  It makes him think of Dean, young and curious, letting salesmen touch him in the Roadhouse bathrooms.  It reminds him of those first meetings, of sucking Dean’s new breasts and then letting him sleep off his orgasms in that tiny twin bed above the pharmacy, of  fucking him into delirium and then filling prescriptions for unsuspecting customers.  Cas had refused to weigh in one way or the other—“whatever makes you happy makes me happy”—but he’d been pleased when Dean had decided to keep his cock. Not every male who undergoes gynogenetic treatment does.  Stubby and tender, with a thick foreskin and low-hanging balls; it’s one part of Dean that has never changed, and never will. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Cas croons when Dean starts to gasp, one hand pressed to his distended stomach, the other working his cock furiously.  “Show me how you make yourself feel good.”

They’re splashing all over the place now, Dean’s breasts slapping the water’s surface as Cas pumps.  Cas grips the boy’s still- narrow hips, guiding him as his body starts to lose its rhythm.  He palms Dean’s heavy belly—fuck, the kid is getting _huge_ —then dips down to finger the slick empty mouth behind his balls.  Since he fell pregnant, Dean rarely gets truly hard, mostly just when Cas is fucking his ass like this (and once or twice when Cas is eating him out and the baby shifts _just_ right, which makes Cas feel filthy and feverish).

“Yeah! Yeah! Touch. Me.” Dean whines, a word for each thrust, like Cas is pushing them out of him. 

“Like having two holes filled?”Cas teases, edging his fingertips along Dean’s folds.  Since Dean took the gynogenetic fixative that made his new body permanent Cas has fantasized about the sounds the boy would make if both his ass and his cunt were filled simultaneously.  “ _Who would I share Dean with?”_   is one of Cas’s favorite parlor games.  He ticks off the possibilities during boring lab meetings or while waiting for reagent reactions, listing all the potential dicks: a strange man, sworn to secrecy? another gynogene?  Sam?

“Uh-huh,” Dean pants, lust-addled. “Ih-inside. Please!”

Cas lets him plead for a moment, admiring the way his own dark-haired muscled forearms look bracketing the dome of Dean’s stomach.  With the pregnancy, the freckles on Dean’s torso have darkened to match his big, brown nipples.

Dean bucks his burdened hips, gasping.  “Please!”

Cas can’t resist Dean—not when he was wheedling meds in Kansas and certainly not here. He works two fingers into Dean’s cunt, scissoring until he can thumb the clit between Dean’s balls.

“Ungh!” Dean’s whole body spasms. Cas can see the muscles in his belly ripple, can feel his ass clench and release and clench once more, drawing the cum in Cas’s balls up to a boil.    

“Don’t stop,” Cas warns.  He grasps Dean’s wrist with his free hand, encouraging the kid to keep stripping his cock. 

Dean’s long fingers pull at his own dick.  Cas rewards him with another brush of his thumb and Dean cries out again.

The sun is setting and Cas closes his eyes against the angled light, smelling chlorine and Dean’s sweat. Dean’s skin is hot, slick against him as the boy jostles, still obediently playing with himself.   Cas grips the crest of Dean’s hip, pushes deeper into his lover’s heavy body, imagines that his seeking fingers can touch his own cock, encounters Dean’s tight cervix instead.

“Oh! I gotta…” Dean wails, “Oohh…cumminggg!”

“Yes, yes,” Cas chants, feeling himself pulse and spill into Dean’s throbbing cunt, “C’mon, my beautiful boy!”  Dean orgasms hard, his whole body writhing—he always has, and now that he’s knocked up, everything is that much more intense.  He’ll tremble for minutes afterwards, and then he’ll want to lounge in Cas’s lap until it’s almost too dark to see.  Eventually, Cas will lure him back to the house with promises of pie, but for now there is nowhere either of them would rather be. 


End file.
